


Acts of defiance

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 02:00:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5988268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chapter 3 of the Mapmaker Series. A human woman joins the company of Thorin Oakenshield on the quest to Erebor as a mapmaker and finds a lifelong love.</p><p>The company is captured in Mirkwood and the mapmaker has her first encounter with King Thranduil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acts of defiance

You definitely weren’t in Rivendell anymore.

While enjoying the hospitality of the elves in the hidden valley, you had been completely charmed by the beauty of the place and the graciousness of Lord Elrond and his subjects. Even Thorin had managed a begrudging but polite nod here and there.

Now your journey had led you to fall into the hands of the elves of Mirkwood, who were — as Beorn had warned you only the day before — fierce, suspicious, and ruthlessly efficient. Already, you and the rest of the company had been stripped of your weapons and forced to watch helplessly as the blond elf who seemed to be the leader of your captors held Thorin at the point of his own sword and called him a thief and a liar. Your heart ached to see your beloved humiliated, and hot anger boiled in the pit of your stomach with every step as the elven cohort dragged you through the forest to the gates of their woodland fortress.

You walked through the doors and entered a massive cathedral of stone and wood, ceilings so high you could only barely see their darkest recesses and deep gorges spanned by twisting, arching bridges of timber polished satin-smooth. Glowing torches lit the path as you were led into a chamber in which stood a high platform. On the platform was a throne, and on the throne sat one of the most striking creatures you’d ever seen in all of Middle Earth. His cornsilk hair flowed over the shoulders of his rich robes, and he wore an elaborate crown of branches entwined with berry vines. His face looked as though it had been carved out of marble, pale and flawless and beautiful…beautiful, yes, but you also noted the alert, shrewd look in his crystal-blue eyes, and you sensed bitterness, even cruelty, behind his languid expression.

King Thranduil’s lips curved in a sardonic smile as his gaze swept over the company, taking in the angry faces and bedraggled appearances. Suddenly his eyes locked with yours, and widened. You caught Thorin’s protective glance at you as the elven King stood and gracefully, silently walked down the steep steps from his throne to the floor where his prisoners waited, his intense stare never leaving you. There was a snarl of threatening grumbles from the assembled dwarves as Thranduil came to stand directly in front of you, a look of avid curiosity on his face. “What have we here?” he murmured, his appraising look ranging all the way down to the hem of your dress before returning to your face.

You started, in spite of yourself, when the insolent blond elf from the forest spoke. “A human, traveling with the dwarves.” He made the last word sound like a foul oath. 

“Indeed,” Thranduil replied, raising his eyebrows slightly and giving you a flattering smile. “Well…one may, at times, find a flower growing in the mud.” 

You felt your cheeks blush pink and then blanch again with your irritation. Thranduil delicately placed his fingertips under your chin and tilted your face upward, as though to inspect it. Instantly there was a deep growl from Thorin. 

“Do not touch her.” 

Thranduil’s attention was sharply diverted, and he let his hand fall as he turned to approach the dwarven King with a mocking smile. He stooped to look Thorin in the eye as he sneered, “why so angry, Thorin Oakenshield? Have you claimed the woman for yourself?” He clearly meant the comment as a taunt, but when Thorin said nothing and you met his questioning look with a fierce glare, Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, and a look of disgust crossed his face. “Really?” he said scornfully. He paced back to stand before you. “Tell me,” he murmured in his silky voice, a hard gleam in his eye, “do all of your human women have a taste for blacksmiths who can barely look them in the eyes?”

As though acting of its own accord, your hand flashed out, and the crack of your palm on the elven King’s cheek echoed in the cavernous hall. For a few silent moments, elves and dwarves alike seemed rooted where they were as Thranduil stared at you with shocked eyes, a red flush staining his white face where your blow had landed. Only Thorin appeared to have the power of movement, and he quickly stepped forward and placed himself between you and Thranduil. Neither said a word, but merely stared each other down, the pale, chiseled face and the rough, bearded one mere inches from each other. Finally Thranduil hissed, “I will deal with you _later_ ,” and turned, with a dismissive wave of his hand, to mount the steps to the throne. The guards immediately took you and the rest of the company roughly in hand and escorted you away.

This time, the procession made its way through dark, twisting passageways into the belly of Thranduil’s domain. You were shoved, alone, into a tiny cell carved out of rock, and the door clanged shut loudly behind you. As soon as the footfalls of the elven guards had died away, you rushed to the bars of your cell, clinging to them as though you would force your way through. “Thorin!” you called desperately. 

“Are you all right?” came his worried response. You could hear him clearly, but he must have been at least a few cells away.

“Thorin, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I know I made things worse, please forgive me.” 

There was a short pause before he answered, his voice quiet but strained. “I would not have you put yourself at risk to defend me.” 

“I know! I know you wouldn’t, it’s just that…” you stopped, suddenly acutely aware of the awkwardness of having this conversation with a captive audience, then forged ahead. “It’s just that there’s not a man alive whom I could love more than you, and to stand there and listen to him insult you, insult me for loving you, as though it were something to be ashamed of…it couldn’t be borne!” A longer pause this time, as you held your breath. 

When he spoke again, his tone was tender, with a hint of pride. “No, it could not. I understand why you did it, amrâlimê. It speaks well of your spirit.” You exhaled with relief, resting your temple against the cold metal of the door. Thorin spoke louder, addressing everyone this time. “Take heart. Do not be afraid. We will find a way out, and we will get to the mountain before Durin’s day.” Silence prevailed for a few minutes as you looked down into the ravine that ran through the middle of the dungeon, wanting with all your heart to believe Thorin’s words but failing to imagine how you would ever escape as long as King Thranduil willed you there.

“Still,” came Kili’s voice at last — you could hear his mischievous grin in it, “it was probably worth getting locked up just to see the look on that pompous ponce’s face when she slapped him.” The absurdness of the scene finally struck you, and you bit your lip to stifle a giggle. And then, you heard a ripple of chuckles spread through the cells holding your companions, even to Thorin’s, whose short, wry laugh was music to your ears.

“Maybe he’ll offer you a deal,” Balin offered sagely. “A deal is our only hope.” 

“Not our only hope,” you heard Thorin reply. 

Of course! As soon as his words reached your ears, you couldn’t believe you hadn’t thought of it before. Even after the elves had returned to take Thorin back upstairs, presumably for a private audience with their King, your eyes roved expectantly over the dungeon, wondering — as you knew Thorin did — if your Master Burglar might have something up his sleeve yet.


End file.
